


Moth to Flame

by ahestele



Category: Eminem (Musician), John Mayer (Musician), Real Person Fiction
Genre: Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-12
Updated: 2005-02-20
Packaged: 2018-10-16 19:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10578096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahestele/pseuds/ahestele
Summary: Marshall runs into someone after the Grammys.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedication from 2003: To the few, the proud, the emslash writers, the first ones to help me feel the love. This little bunny has been hopping in my head since the Grammys.
> 
> &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
> 
> A large, humble nod to the late, great, embitca, goddess of all things emslash, and the inspiration for this fic. I refer to her fic "Condolence” briefly. The world is less bright without her in it.

The alley smelled of garbage and weed and Marshall slammed the exit door behind him and leaned against it, taking deep breaths of the fetid air. 

He fucking hated award shows, especially the fucking Grammys. Performing in front all his 'peers' when most of them wouldn't speak to him on the street if they crossed paths, watching the controlled, polite stares and clapping from the stage while the fans, the ones responsible for his success, were relegated to the cheap seats, their cheering muffled and tinny. The look on Kim Cattrall's face when he won best rap album said everything about this business: pinched and disapproving when his name was read, then instantly smiling and friendly when he walked up. Yeah, he SAW the monitor, bitch. 

And then, just to put the whole lame-ass night in perspective, he got his ass kicked by a ninety-pound little girl from Texas. The fact that everyone got their asses kicked by her didn't make him feel better. If he had won all the categories he'd been nominated in it would have been a record for the hip-hop industry. Instead he only won one, and not even the one he most coveted. 

He'd been flat-out unable to stop his head from drooping when his name wasn't called. The sick, hollow feeling in his stomach made it difficult to breathe, and when he felt Bruce Springsteen's hand on his back, heavy and warm, the tears just escaped. Felt like a fuckin' five year old being herded out of the camera’s eye while Norah Jones continued to kick ass and not take any names, thank you. The older man let him get it out, embarrassing, ugly sounds because, shit, he couldn't remember the last time he cried this way, and he fucking HATED giving this much of a damn. The understanding, sympathetic look on the craggy, lined face just made it worse because Marshall didn't know him from shit, didn't listen to that kind of music, and was pretty sure, if the tables were turned, he would never have that much class. 

In the middle of P. Diddy's party, all at once, he couldn't take one more stupid question or flash bulb in his face. When he snarled at the flaming little queen from MTV, Proof muttered in his ear that maybe he should step back. Take a walk. Get himself together. 

Wasn't that the shit? He had to have someone with twice as many disturbing the peace citations as he had, telling him to take a motherfucking time-out. His daughter would fall out giggling if she knew. 

"Kind of intense, right?"

"Sonafa...!" Marshall nearly jumped out of his skin at the friendly voice, tripping over his own feet. A lightening-quick hand kept him upright, and he shook it off, ears burning.] hand caught his arm to keep him upright and he shook it off, ears burning. Just what he needed tonight: to fall on his ass in an alley after being this raw, this exposed, in front of some stranger.

"Don't fuckin' touch me, man!'

"Sorry. I was just... sorry." 

He glared at the figure blending into the shadows until whoever it was moved into the light and he saw a kid giving him a good-natured, nervous smile. Despite his outburst, he found no rancor in the sleepy brown eyes. The alley light shone off porcelain skin and too tall had pouting lips like a model, but the rest, yeah, the rest wasn't too smooth. Sharp black pin-striped suit and the kid had his knuckles in the pockets so deep the expensive material scrunched up the sides ruining what Dre called 'the effect'. A purply tie hung loosened around an open necked shirt that should have looked faggy, but didn't. Messy dark hair with no style to speak of. 

"Don't fuckin' sneak up on someone like that."

"I didn't. I was already out here." 

Marshall opened his mouth to belabor the point, and inhaled the remnants of the weed still lingering in the air. 

"You smokin'?" The kid's apple cheeks flushed and Marshall snickered, crossing his arms at the gangly form. He didn't get a lot of blushing in the posse he ran with and started to like the guy for it. Anyone who could still blush like that after spending any time in this crazy-ass business was doing okay. "Step back, I ain't tellin' if you share."

"Okay." The kid withdrew a decent sized joint from his pocket and lit up like a pro, thumb flicking on the lighter, palm shielding the ember from the wind. Large, blunt hands did not match the pouty-faced innocence, which in turn didn't match the sharp black suit, and Marshall found himself watching those cherub lips close around the twisted end of the paper to draw the heat in. Averting his eyes he held out his hand and brought the joint to his mouth to take a deep drag, feeling the herb settle in his chest and blunt the aggravation of the night. 

"John." An oversized paw was held out for his taking and Marshall accepted; felt calluses and rough palms. Good grip, though. He hated wimpy handshakes.

"Marshall," He answered, matching the strained sound. 

"I know." The hands dove deep into the pockets again, like he was playing palm hockey. Marshall wondered if it was some kind of nervous habit. "Congratulations on winning tonight."

"Yeah, thanks." At least the guy hadn't mentioned the three he’d lost. Marshall leaned against the wall, too, and studied the kid slouching in front of him. Maybe he was taller but it was hard to tell. For some reason his eyes kept being drawn to those bow lips, luscious and moist, even in this light. John didn't blink too much, and they had been staring at each other in silence for several minutes before Marshall even realized it. 

"This is some good shit, yo." He shifted onto his back and accepted the joint once more, drawing the smoke in deep. "Woulda brought my own, but I'm on probation."

Low laughter greeted his ears and he turned to the kid with a scowl he couldn't hang onto when he saw the wide, open smile. 

"I'm not now, nor have I ever been, on probation." A pause, knitting of the thick dark brows. "Wait. That's a lie."

"Man, please." Marshall surveyed him skeptically. "Like you've ever been arrested."

"Not exactly. I was on academic probation before I quit college," The kid said with no embarrassment whatsoever and then closed those blowjob lips around the joint again, cheeks hollowing as he took a drag. Speaking of blowjobs...Marshall had a flash of that pretty face down at his waist, looking up at him, and blinked his eyes to erase it. 

"Yeah?" He accepted the joint and inhaled, holding it in for a few second before exhaling in a slow stream. "What'd they do? Make you visit the guidance counselor and take away your right to fuck co-eds?"

"Something like that." The kid shrugged, mellow, full-lipped smile still present and Marshall about decided he’d hit on someone insult proof. And he was having no success erasing the blow job scene from his mind. He was trying so hard he almost missed the kid's, John's, next words. 

"I had to have something. It's my first awards."

Shit, had he EVER been this naive? Run the fuck away, he almost said. Go back to whatever bar you used to play with people you know you can trust and leave this shit hole business 'cause it eats your soul and spits it back out broken. But the kid was probably someone's date or son or something, and didn't need a lecture on the music world according to Marshall. Only pain-in-the-ass old people gave lectures on life's little dilemmas. 

He'd been staring at the lips again. 

"What's wrong?" John asked, brows drawing again over those sleepy eyes that looked like they'd just woken up, lashes so long they flapped like wings. 

"I think I'm fucked up." Marshall muttered, eyes still on the wide candy mouth. It curved into a slow, amused grin. Kind of shy. FUCK it had to be the weed. Why else would he be fixated on some kid's lips and wondering if they were as soft as they looked? The thought shocked him and he ducked his head, tearing his gaze away. 

"You don't look fucked up." The voice was soft, low, and Marshall glanced back, got trapped looking at the lowered lashes, thick and dark against the creamy skin. Then they lifted slowly, almost seduction-slow, and he was caught in the inky dark depths. He bet he could see himself in them in another light. The full lips parted then, peek of tongue at the edge and his stomach did a languid, unexpected roll. The wasted joint slipped from his fingers to the floor.

He hadn't noticed their mouths drifting toward each other like magnets until his head bumped the wall. The same recognition sparked in John's eyes and they both drew back, staring. The blush was back, coloring the kid's cheeks until he looked like one of the antique dolls Kim insisted on buying for Hailie, but the sleepy eyes didn't drop Marshall's incredulous stare. Had to give him props for that. 

"The hell was that?" He didn't recognize his voice for a minute because he didn't usually sound that way: breathless, unsure, quiet. John swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing on the fine neck, and fuck, he was messed up if he was noticing shit like other guy's necks. 

"I'm not sure." The kid whispered, and again with the hands in the pockets. Made him look fuckin' deformed. Long lashes gave in and fell once more, and that was killing him, man. He'd never been so glad to be dressed ghetto in his life because fuck if his cock wasn't showing signs of interest. 

"You got more weed?" Marshall asked, a husky whisper all he could manage. 

"No." John whispered back. Shook his head, eyes still lowered. 

"Damn. Can't blame that, then." And he swam into the doll lips in one smooth move. Just lips, nothing more, latching onto the parted petal softness and delving a tease with his tongue. He heard the sharp inhale against his cheek a second before his mouth was filled with delicious warm velvet. Mint and teeth and something sweet- soda- marred the tang of the weed and Marshall sucked at the ambrosia, devouring like he hadn't eaten in weeks. /Jesus, how could another guy's mouth be this soft?/ His pot-addled brain babbled and he shut it up and just experienced the taste, tugging on the full mouth, tongues fencing and the top of his head felt like it would fly right off. 

They parted with a gasp, still pressed close, the kid’s hand still in his pockets and Marshall's fisted at his sides, nails cutting crescents into his palm. For several seconds they breathed into each other, gazes locked, and what kind of weed HAD that been? Pot sometimes made him horny, but fuck, this was....it just....he was gonna go crazy if he couldn't have that mouth again. The throb below his waist pulsed against his leg. Holding the long-lashed dark stare, Marshall rolled his hips, moaning through his teeth at the contact and the raven lashes fluttered shut. The candy mouth parted. 

"God." John whispered, and it sounded desperate and surprised and a little lost, and it flashed lust right through him. Then Marshall's hands moved like they had a purpose, oh, yes they did. 

Firm handfuls of young ass in his palms through the silk of the suit and rough hands held his face, trembling. Foreheads met with a bump and Marshall breathed in the minty scent, lifting John's hips into him, rubbing. 

"I...I don't...."The kid whispered disjointedly and Marshall laughed at him, he sounded so good all confused and little-boy-lost. 

"Shut up, man," he whispered into the pouty lips and they really were soft as silk, petals, satin. "Feel this?" His hips ground forward, reaching for friction, incredible pressure, and the lashes flew up then, up, wide bedroom eyes. The boy's hips thrust back and Marshall gritted his teeth at the deep skittering fingers of desire that traveled up his spine.

"Yeah. I feel that." John whispered, eyes so dark, black with lust. Marshall smiled a little, pleased, then stopped when large hands moved to his skull, rubbing and smoothing the short bleached hair, thumbs caressing Marshall's face like he'd never had done, not with any bitch he'd been with, or his wife, even. 

"Give me your mouth." The words just pushed out, ragged and almost angry, he didn't know from where. The blossom mouth was on his, parting, tongue so hot, mint and pot and he could kiss this kid forever if he didn't have to breathe, his cock, the rapidly building desire almost background to that incredible muscle in his mouth. Damn, what that mouth could do to him, all of him...

Then, as if that thought burned into his conscience, he felt it starting on, tripping along like a train he couldn't stop, and he was going to come in his pants from all the heat and friction, and it felt so fucking good. 

"Oh, man, I'm...." He whispered into John's mouth and the boy made a helpless sound at the back of his throat that floated into Marshall's lips and that was it. Any control snapped, evaporated, left the building; he felt it go. With a grunt he slammed the kid against the wall and humped, hard, twice, three times, cock twitching and leaking and FUCK. He froze as he shot, holding John's hips to his, white heat obliterating everything. He floated in the light for long suspended seconds.

When he came back to himself he held a quaking body, still straining, lips buried in his neck leaving kisses like butterflies. He smiled lazily and wished he could lay right down on the filthy floor and go to sleep. 

"You need something?" He whispered, saw the dark eyes flash frustration. 

"I'm really close..." John said brokenly, lids falling shut, and that flush rose up again, the one that made Marshall want to throw him on a bed somewhere and push into something, anything. Snaking a hand between them he found the steel hard dick through the soaked silk and pumped skillfully, watching that angel face the whole time. 

"Come in my hand." He whispered into a red ear. John moaned and did just that, clutching Marshall's shoulders, face hidden in the hood at the crook of his neck. Warmth flooded his palm and he rode out the waves that racked the young body in his arms. 

When he was pretty sure John wouldn't collapse he stepped back, and the night air whooshed between them, making him cold. The kid stayed propped against the wall, eyes downward, and an ugly thread of apprehension started in Marshall's chest. Any mellowness from the pot had gone and he looked at the uncomfortable kid in his wrinkled suit and wondered what the hell he had just done. What he had just let happen. 

"Anyways, man." He lifted his chin, staring at the kid head on 'cause this had been a two way street here. "Thanks."

The lashes lifted again and Marshall felt his stomach do that slo-mo rolling thing at the look in them. Uncertainty, and fuck, was that hurt? 

"Okay." John whispered. A different kind of ugliness began in his chest because the kid no longer looked twelve and innocent as the driven goddamn snow. Had he done that? It wouldn't make him feel fly if he had. 

"So, you going back to the party?" He asked casually, as if he didn't have come drying on his thighs and he already wanted more of that mint-weed mouth like a pot craving. 'Cause he was a fuckin' success, he had SKILLS, and he could play this off just fine. 

"No. I think I'm going home. I mean, to the hotel." The kid said to the floor and Marshall pressed his lips together. So, good enough to get off but nothing else, huh? Fuckin' typical. 

"See ya." He nodded, about to walk off, when he saw the kid bend down into the refuse littering the floor and pick something up. It took a few seconds to register the object he retrieved. Marshall stared at the small gold gramophone on its polished wooden base that John held in one hand. The kid paused from turning away and watched Marshall stare at the award. 

"Yo, what'd you win?" He asked softly. John actually looked at the little plaque like he had to refresh his memory. 

"Best Pop/Vocal Performance." He gave Marshall a small grin. Marshall racked his brain trying to place where he'd been when they gave that out, but fuck if he could remember. He'd ignored all the categories he wasn't nominated in. 

"Congratulations, man." And shit, how lame did that sound? The kid nodded, then ran a hand through the messy, dark hair with a shy smile. A bloom of tenderness reached out and bit him on the ass, rendering him speechless. 

"See you." John moved to walk past him in the narrow space while he was still freaking out and their eyes stumbled across each other, holding. The urge to push him against the wall was so strong Marshall's arms actually twitched with it. The pouty mouth looked red and almost bruised. 

"Yeah, later." Marshall muttered, unable to lift his stare from the blossom lips, and suddenly, the kid was gone. He watched the gangly form walk out of the alley, shoulders kind of sloped, at least one hand in the pocket while the other held the award awkwardly. 

He stood in the alley for a minute, flashes of what just happened going off in his brain like still photos. Thought of running after the kid but held back long enough for that insanity to pass. Taking a deep breath he opened the door, his focus already on how much vodka it would take to make him forget the taste of mint and weed and sweet, sweet velvet in his mouth.</


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuation of my Grammy night Eminem/John Mayer fic. A month after the Grammys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedication, from 2003: To rubywisp. In some way all things these days are for you. And for embitca, who keeps the Marshall faith.

ONE MONTH LATER

“I ain’t performing?” Marshall repeated for the third time and, yeah, maybe he was starting to sound like a goddamned parrot, but, shit. 

His mind was still playing catch up. 

After the awards his life took on one of those surreal loops that left him glassy eyed and reeling with show after show and appearances and concerts and sometimes he had to remind himself what city, function, show, they were on. Sometimes all the outstretched hands freaked him out; the upturned palms reminding him of all the movies about Jesus he’d ever seen where the beggars asked for food or money. Wondered if Jesus ever felt like going postal and telling everyone to back the fuck up. 

Over Paul and Steve’s and EVERYONES protests he’d decided to blow off the Oscars. The nervous murmurs had already begun because the song off the soundtrack that had been nominated had cursing in it, and you know, fuck it. Just fuck it. He didn’t need this shit. He had the DVD coming out any day, the accompanying release party and the European tour to flesh out. The last thing he fucking wanted was to get all dressed up to walk down a red carpet with more people that didn’t respect him and be dissed by Joan fucking Rivers. Might make a good song, though….

All he’d had to do was make it to Letterman. Letterman wasn’t a bad way to end one of these things. Letterman was down; he liked Dave. Dave never made any static about censors or tried to tell the musicians what to sing, and he actually listened to the shit he booked, something Marshall was sure Leno didn’t do. A few weeks back he’d laughed his head off when someone booked these little Russian lesbians with a top ten single and they got off half of America by touching each other on camera. Man with one of the top rated late night shows should be more on his game than that. 

Then things got effed up. The limo got in a traffic jam trying to go ten blocks from TRL to the Letterman studio due to some bitch who ran out of a convenience store into the street with a muumuu over head, buck naked and crazy as fuck. Gridlock, honking that gave him a headache until he wanted to give in to some serious road rage because godDAMN, did it LOOK like the motherfucking racket was making anyone move any faster? And the loud guffaws of his posse as Lady Godiva with the muumuu began to twirl away from the police holding blankets as she waved the colorful material up and down like a blooming flower. Marshall blinked at the peek-a-boo of distended stomach and stretch marks over both hips like silver fish and wished like crazy he was at home. The D had its problems but this shit, man. This shit didn’t happen there. Fucking New York. 

It took them forever to reach the studio.

And now he wasn’t performing.

“What the FUCK?” He demanded.

Paul ran a hand over his jowly face and Marshall knew anyone but him would have taken a few steps back. Paul was built like he fought on WWE, all doorway wide shoulders, shaved head and glittering pale hazel eyes. Marshall might even have toned down but his head still hurt like fuck and they were twenty minutes from airtime and WHY THE FUCK WASN’T HE PERFORMING??

“It’s an interview, Marshall. I got you a goddamn INTERVIEW with LETTERMAN about the movie. No set. No posse. Just you and Dave talking about your fuckin’ growth as an actor, which was in the MEMO I sent you LAST WEEK. The one you never read. RIGHT?”

Was that what had been in the thick sheaf of papers Paul handed him when he boarded the plane? He vaguely remembered taking it and then, well, damned if he knew what he did with that. He hated paperwork and avoided it like cancer; it’s why he had lawyers. 

“RIGHT?” Paul shouted and Marshall did step back because Paul’s eyes had begun to pinwheel and that was some scary shit, and maybe he deserved it this time. 

“A’ight, a’ight, it’s no thing. I feel ya, man. It’s cool.” Proof inserted himself between his murderously glaring manager and Marshall. “It’s all good. You know Marsh can handle himself, right? It’s cool.”

“No Proof, it’s not COOL. This isn’t fuckin’ Vibe magazine where they can edit crap out, this is live fucking television. Do you get that?”

Marshall slumped onto a corner of a couch, his ass half hanging off. The damn room being this small made sense now, but irritation pricked along his skin anyhow because he knew J-Lo and Enrique Iglesias and fucking Madonna traveled with a goddamn carnival and he bet they got more room than this. Half his band sat scrunched on another couch, and Bizarre had wedged himself into a canvas chair that just was not long for this world with three hundred plus pounds of rapper straining the tortured fabric. It reminded him of a song Hailie liked to sing about elephants playing on a spider’s web.

“This isn’t my fuckup, got it?” Paul pointed at his face and Marshall controlled the urge to swat the thick hand out of his face. He hadn’t seen Paul this angry since the last time he was dumb enough to take a hit off a blunt in broad daylight at Snoop’s house and it showed up on the National Enquirer: ‘EMINEM SPITS IN THE FACE OF PAROLE’. “Are we clear?”

“Look, Paul, I…” He stood and tried to speak but he manager held up two heavy arms and stared at him, hard.

“Don’t talk to me right now Marshall. Just do not fucking talk to me right now.” With that Paul strode out of the dressing room and Marshall dropped his chin forward, rubbing his neck with one hand. 

An arm hooked around his neck and Marshall glanced up to see Proof’s sympathetic smile. “He’ll cool down, Em. You’ll kick some ass with Dave and he’ll be cool.”

“Yeah.” Marshall rubbed his temple where the throbbing pounded like a bass Busta Rhymes beat. 

“I’m gone score you some Advil, dawg.” Proof disappeared and Marshall sat back on his corner of sofa rubbing both hands along his forehead, when something occurred to him, and he looked up suddenly.

“Yo. If I ain’t performin’ who is?”

 

INTRVIEW

He didn’t mean to kiss his own ass but the interview had gone really well. It helped that, even though Dave had a little card with questions he didn’t seem too worried about following them. Marshall had talked a little about working with Kim Basinger and Mekhi Phifer and what he’d done to prepare, and he hadn’t even cussed that much. When he slipped up he made some comment about Madonna that had Dave cracking up and the orchestra doing drum rolls. Shit, he could do this. It was just talking and he was gonna find Paul and demand a damned apology for the hissy fit earlier. 

“8 Mile ladies and gentleman out on DVD this Friday. Is that right? This Friday?”

“Yeah.” Marshall smiled as Dave held up the 8 Mile CD then changed cameras. 

“Now this young man recently won a Grammy for best pop vocal performance and will be playing at the House of Blues Saturday night. The CD is ‘Room for Squares’ and this is John Mayer!” Dave did a ZZ Top point to the stage. Marshall looked over. Felt his eyes go wide as the audience exploded in cheers. 

The kid from the alley stood center stage plucking on a guitar. It had to be him; Marshall would know those lips anywhere. Instead of the sharp black suit he wore a faded t-shirt and the baggiest pants in the universe and somehow looked even younger and TALLER under the studio lights. A band backed him up as the first guitar chords of a song began. The audience began to lose their damn shit as John smiled the same shy grin that made Marshall want to jump him. All the little girls in the audience apparently agreed. 

The song was about someone’s body being a wonderland or some shit but Marshall barely listened; just stared at the gangly young man bathed in the spotlight, memories of that night hitting him thick and fast. 

He’d done his damnedest to get wasted as fuck but no amount of liquor erased the taste from his mouth and he’d jerked off alone in his hotel room at four in the morning, drowning in remembered sensations: lips like satin, spreading warmth and hardness on his palm and eyelashes so long they waved at him like fans. It had become his favorite jerk off fantasy, actually, and now the source stood not six feet from him whipping the audience into a frenzy with the cutesy pop song. Even the older members of the audience obviously here to see him began to bop to the hook, but Marshall only spared them a brief glance, his eyes returning to the kid on stage because this was some freaky shit. Even in this weird ass business, what were the odds? 

John sang right up to the microphone, full lips grazing the surface, eyes closed sometimes. The kid had some motherfucking huge hands and they coaxed melodies from the guitar with the same confidence that hey held his face that night. At one point Marshall realized the audience was singing along to every word and squeals broke out after a line about candy lips and a bubble gum tongue that for some reason made things below his waist twitch. 

The lights coming up startled him out of his thoughts and he shifted as the finale music came on. Dave stood to approach the stage but Marshall sat there until the gap-toothed host motioned him over. He stood, refusing to acknowledge the nervous flutter in his stomach. The hell was he nervous about? He’d had his share of back door hook ups. So? /but not guys/. Okay, yeah, not guys, but so? He was Marshall fucking Mathers. One tall kid with baggy ass jeans did not fucking intimidate him! 

“John Mayer ladies and gentleman!” Dave was saying as Marshall edged over. Join us tomorrow when we will have Leelee Sobieski, Audioslave and stupid human tricks!”

John’s band began milling around and HE shuffled over until he managed to come up next to the kid, and fuck, he did NOT remember this height. How could he forget something like that? Giving him a nudge with his shoulder, Marshall tried a friendly smirk, but the dark orbs slid over him, and then glanced away blankly. He felt the muscles of his face freeze.

The hell did the punk ass bitch think he was, pretending not to know him? They’d gotten off, he’d had his hand on the kid’s DICK, so what the fuck? HE’S the one should be all forget-you! HE’S was the fucking rapper not some faggy little pop singer with a guitar!

“Marsh, man, you okay?” Bizarre peered at him as he slammed in the dressing room so pissed off his breath came in short, panting stitches. 

“Nothin’.” He slouched in the much abused canvas chair then sprang back up. “I gotta take a piss, yo.”

“I feel ya.” Bizarre bobbed his head. “Everyone’s waitin’ for ya down at the limo.”

Marshall shook his head. “ Don’t worry about it. I’ll get one back to the hotel later. I gotta take care of something private.”

“Ain’t no beef, Marsh. We clear the rest of the day…”

“I’m good.”

“We’ll be….”

“Damn, dawg! Can’t I take a fuckin’ piss without an escort?” He exploded and Bizarre raised both eyebrows at the outburst. “See ya tonight, a’ight?” He walked out the room before the large rapper could say anything else. 

Then he had problem because he didn’t want to get mobbed looking for the little fucker, but these talk shows were all alike; had all their dressing rooms in a row, and most of them had connecting doors. After just a few minutes of wandering he recognized one of the band members leaving, a bald guy, and slipped into the empty adjoining dressing room to listen. 

“-shorter than I thought he’d be.” 

“He’s not that short. And how could you even tell? He was sitting down.”

“He got up at the end, John. Not too forthcoming is he? Did you see him run off the stage?” Different voice; probably cue ball that had just walked in.

Something he couldn’t hear. Laughter, and his cheeks flamed because he bet they were fucking laughing at him. Fuckers probably had a contract handed to them on a silver goddamned platter and had no idea their All-American lead singer liked cock. 

“We got reservations at Mirage for lunch. Bernie knew someone.”

“Just let me finish here and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Assorted laughter. “When are you gonna let one of the crew pack up the guitar, man?”

“He needs to kiss it good-bye.” 

“Go to hell.” But Marshall heard the smile in the comment and could remember that smile: slow, wide, kind of shy. His gut clenched again and it just made him want to slam in there and start throwing punches. “Do not fuck with the magic of the instrument, gentlemen. This is a delicate machine of balance and grace and will be treated as such.”

Snickering, and a door opened. Marshall put his ear to the door to listen. 

“I guess we should leave him alone with his _instrument_.”

“We’ll be downstairs when the farewells are over.”

“Infidels!” John called, but Marshall heard the laughter in his voice. The next minute the door closed and he waited a few seconds to make sure one of them didn’t come back for something. All he heard were some guitar chords, things shuffling. 

So luck was with him today. He didn’t intend to waste it. 

He quietly turned the knob and opened the door to the dressing room, noting how much bigger than theirs it had been. John had his back turned while he screwed with the guitar case and Marshall crept in on silent feet, stealth perfected from years of sneaking around his mom’s asshole boyfriends who got punchy when he woke them up from a beer-induced nap. He soundlessly shut the door behind him. 

For a second he just watched the curve of Johns’ back under the faded shirt. Christ, what was he hiding someone in those pants? They weren’t ghetto loose. They were grunge I haven’t eaten in days and can’t afford a belt loose. Fucker looked like all the college students Marshall had ever seen. 

John glanced up at the wall length mirror as he shut the case and whirled around, nearly knocking the case to the ground. Marshall crossed his arms and glared at him as John righted instrument container behind his back, dark eyes wide with surprise, and not of the pleasant variety, that was for fucking sure. He ignored the twinge of regret that sparked and stalked closer; noted with satisfaction how he backed up. 

“You think you can do that?” He demanded harshly. John blinked at him with those longass lashes he’d forgotten about. 

“Put away my guitar?”

“Fuck you.” He spat, rage so close to the surface his fists were cutting slits in his palm at the goddamned innocent WHOLESOMENESS staring him in the face. Marshall knew better. He’d watched him come and he’d made him come so little Tom fucking Sawyer could save the wide-eyed baby routine for someone that bought it. “You think you can fucking diss me and get away with it, bitch?”

Something changed in the dark ebony eyes and just like blowing out a candle the nervous fear disappeared. Marshall watched, incredulous, as the tall kid turned his BACK on him and started putting stuff in backpack. 

“Don’t you have that backwards?”

“Fuck I do.”

“Fuck you don’t.” John turned to face him, voice tight and angry and Marshall narrowed his eyes at the pale emotion marking the pretty face. “I was there.”

“I didn’t walk the fuck away.” Marshall shot out coldly.

“Well I didn’t treat you like a wh…” John pressed his lips together, eyes dropping, but not before the hurt in them knocked a sucker punch in his gut. “Like you’d just paid me.”

“Bullshit.”

“Right.” John snapped, moving closer in anger, those eyes flashing. “ ‘Anyway, thanks.’ ‘Anyway, thanks’? What do you call that?”

“So I shouldn’t have thanked you, damn.” Marshall sniffed and threw his head back. “Try to be polite, see what it gets me.”

“Go to hell.” But the voice didn’t match the words. It didn’t even match the carefree way the same phrase had been said a little while ago. The voice was soft and almost inaudible and he’d turned away again, shoulders slumped as he screwed with the stupid backpack, and, no. No way did he feel guilty about this shit. 

“What the fuck? Other people promise you candy and flowers or something when you hook up?” He put all the scorn he could in the phrase and saw the shoulders still. 

“You think I do this all the time? ” John’s voice was low and Marshall shrugged expansively.

“Maybe.” He lied. “Maybe you planned the whole…”

“Oh, yeah. I planned it.” John suddenly turned, voice hissing mad, right up in his space so he almost had to tilt his head up to meet the furious dark eyes. “I had a list, of course.” One hand counted off the items on another, fingers pushed back with the force. “Pick up tux. Win Grammy. Circle jerk with angry white rapper.” Marshall stared, mouth dry all of a sudden, eyes helplessly flicking to the blossom mouth he goddamned dreamed about sometimes; lips parted, moist. Panting. 

Fuck. 

He opened his mouth to say something and what came out was: “I almost went back.” 

“Right.” John said and the word just sounded wrong, all bitter and sarcastic in that flower mouth and those doll eyes.

“You calling me a liar?”

John just looked at him, and somehow that was worse. 

“I ain’t fucking lying. I almost went after you.”

“But you didn’t.” The voice was trying to be angry still, but other things colored it more. Things he didn’t want to think about. “It doesn’t matter.” Marshall swallowed away whatever wanted to escape because he was scared to know what the it might be with John this close. As if John realized how close they were the tall man stepped back, but Marshall didn’t let his eyes go. They stood that way for long moments, and he felt himself almost fucking PULLED forward, and having to fight it. John broke the spell by dropping his head and turning away. 

Marshall stared at the messy curls for a second. 

He moved without thinking. 

In two steps he closed the distance, whirled John around by the shoulder and pulled their mouths together, his fists gnarled in the thin shirt, and, damn. Oh, damn, godDAMN his mouth, he knew this. Explosion of mint and sweet soda, and no weed, this time, no, just the mind-blowing taste of him as he struggled in Marshall’s arms. With a growl Marshall stumbled them against the nearest wall, pinning the kid there like a butterfly under glass, knee up between his legs and without the pot the taste was like some pure fruit in his mouth, and he couldn’t get enough. He attacked with his tongue, sweeping and swirling, tugging on the full lips until John’s arms quit pushing away and started gripping in little spasms, as if he was still trying to struggle, but couldn’t.

Marshall surged forward, met hardness with his own, heard a sound from John go into his throat, and it traveled right down to where they pulsed against each other. Broke away when he realized the spots behind his eyes might mean he needed to breathe. 

He rested their foreheads together, struggling for breath, panting into each other, watched the starry points of John’s eyelashes on the creamy skin. He had the long legs V’d on the floor, low, so he could look in the dark eyes when they opened. A hip roll and an answering push, watched the soft lower lip get caught in teeth and he bent his head to suck away the marks.

“Limo downstairs.” He could only talk in phrases right now, like he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs even though they’d stopped making out. “Meet me.”

“My friends…” The full lips mumbled in protest, but his hands, those big hands were on Marshall’s hips, holding him close. 

“Ditch ‘em.”

“S’posed to have…dinner.” Marshall leaned in at the waist, sliding. The dark eyes closed. “Oh.”

“Change it.” 

He covered the parted lips again to head off any more denials, tongue tracing, dancing in the sweet taste. When he moved away John didn’t protest anymore, eyes a little unfocused, cheeks flushed. So damn pretty. 

“Downstairs. You got twenty minutes.” With one last stare he pushed away, glad for the long front of his hoodie that hid his hard on. Left the kid leaning against the wall kind of dazed and tried to leave like he knew without a doubt he’d be obeyed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eminem. John Mayer. A month after the Grammy Awards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedication, from 2003: For rubywisp, for everlasting patience, feedback, and priceless honesty. For embitca, who loves Marshall so well and often. For wyrdchaos, who doesn't get this obsession AT ALL, yet updates the site anyway! *smooches* and for rabid_x, who helped me figure stuff out. And also everyone who sent me feedback wanting more. The boys and I love you all, amores.

LIMO

It had been fifteen minutes and Marshall drained half of his Mountain Dew in one swallow. He was trying not to drink anything stronger this early in the day, but considering it anyway. The caffeine was making his hand tap staccato on his knee and he looked at the glass doors willing the kid to come through them one minute, then nearly telling the driver to take off the next. 

What the fuck was the kid doing? Marshall had done this before, yeah, with bitches. Gotten infatuated in ten minutes flat and hounded them until they gave in. And then he moved the fuck on. 

This kid, man, though. This kid was killing him. The Game hadn't worked at all, even though he'd been playing it in his head for the whole fifteen minutes.

He'd made up the game one night after catching himself having seven one-night-stands in a row the first time he and Kim broke up. The CD had exploded all over the place and women were practically crawling on his dick and riding. 

It got old, except when it didn't.

He’d been a goofy kid with buckteeth, and then a white boy in the wrong part of town that got jumped every few days. Having as many women as he wanted - fine women, with tits that defied gravity and flat, hard stomachs - still knocked him out most days, so, yeah, he’d been playing it kinda hard. Until the time he'd caught the look on Dre's face one time when Em was leaving with a groupie. Dre looked disappointed, and Marshall wasn't used to it, ‘cause, shit, his mom was never on top of him enough as a kid to be DISAPPOINTED. Yelling, angry, whiny, yeah, but not that look. 

Dre didn’t whore it up too much himself. He had a wife and kids, and the few times he hooked up, he played it chill so Marshall didn’t even realize Dre had done it until he saw the girl leave the next morning. Dre always had a car waiting to take her home, too, instead of letting her wander around advertising she just got fucked. It took him a few times to realize Dre hooked up with the same women every time and not any of the greedy scrubs that showed up backstage. 

When he questioned him about it the older man shrugged, the lidless eyes obsidian and serene. "They're down." was all he said.

So, he started The Game. He picked at everything he could find that was wrong with whomever he wanted to fuck: too much makeup, fake tits, fake laugh, stupid clothes, too young, too old, wrinkled, fat, stupid, snobby. He found it didn’t take much to talk himself out of it, and he liked not seeing that look on Dre’s face. 

John was too fucking tall. Marshall didn’t like people to be taller than him. He wore those stupid baggy-as-shit pants, and had no style anywhere. He was a dork. Probably played in the damn BAND when he was in school. Goody-two shoes loser who happened to land a record deal. 

If the goody-two-shoes loser didn’t show up Marshall was going to hunt him down and show him what happened to pop boy bitches who though they could play…

Someone knocked on the limo window. ‘FANS’, was his first thought but fans didn’t tap on the tinted glass like they were selling Girl Scout cookies. His fans clawed at the window until their fingers bled and pushed their breasts against the glass and rocked the car until the shocks groaned in denial. The fuck? Marshall leaned over, saw a faded shirt over baggy hillbilly jeans, and slid across the leather seat to pop open the door.

“I wasn’t sure if…”

“Get your ass in the car! Shit!” A tangle of long arms and legs folded themselves into the limo and pulled the door shut and there he was. Messy, dark hair falling into sleepy, dark eyes. Pouting, soft lips. Athletic socks showing under the loose jeans. Vans. A hoodie that looks like it was bought at fucking Kmart and Marshall wanted to rip it off and see if the creamy skin was that color everywhere. 

He pinged on the privacy panel and the limo purred away from the curb.

RIDE

For the longest time they just looked at each other. He took in the heavy-lidded eyes, and what was that stupid eighties' song? 'Bette Davis eyes', yeah. Always looked sleepy, like they had that night. He’d spent a month telling himself it was the weed; that’d make anyone’s eyes look like they’d just had sex. The dark, hooded pair that met his stare unflinchingly proved him wrong. Marshall took a last pull from his Mountain Dew bottle and thought of offering John something, when John spoke. 

“So how’ve you been?”

Marshall blinked for a few seconds then broke into a disbelieving grin. How had he been? Shit. 

“Okay.” He shrugged. 

John nodded and started to say something else when Marshall reached over and ran his thumb over John’s full lower lip. Whatever words the kid was going to say left and Marshall rubbed the flesh beneath his fingertip, amazingly soft and giving. The doll lips slowly opened and a pink tongue peeked out, wet brush across the tip and Marshall caught his breath as the heavy feeling in his cock crossed over into hard. Spots of color sprouted high on the cheekbones of John‘s face but the dark stare never dropped his, even when Marshall glanced down to where his thumb rested on the blossom mouth.

"Fuck," Marshall whispered, nearly tangling up in his own legs to get closer. He wasn’t winning any prizes for smoothness today, but who gave a fuck. They collided together, and a large hand cupped Marshall’s face and tilted their lips together. 

One long arm surrounded his shoulders and he opened into a citrus mouth, frantic and needy, pulling and biting at the satin lips. His hands scrabbled beneath the stupid shirt and his mind imploded some more when he hit hot, smooth skin and ribs beneath his palm. 

Damn, he wanted everything, everywhere, with a greed he was NOT prepared for. It just took over all his nerve endings, washed over him until he had one hand stroking the pulsing length in those baggy frigging jeans and one buried in silky dark hair, holding the soft lips to his, drowning in them. John kept giving little whimpers and gasped into his mouth and it was hot as fuck, made him want to strip him right here, and that sounded even hotter. 

He reached under John’s cock, nudging, and a low moan that sounded like the sweetest riff ever escaped into his throat and then he felt himself bodily shifted up all of a sudden.

He tensed, surprised. "The fuck?" 

The kid smiled drowsily at him dark eyes glittering. For a second he felt pissed because only bitches used this position, didn’t they? He was no bitch, he didn’t….then the large hands rolled him downward and bolts of want sizzled all through him, making him hiss in surprise. “Shhhhhhiiit.”

“God.” John whispered, eyes closed. 

His head lolled backwards exposing a long stretch of neck, the Adam’s apple quivering as he swallowed. Marshall mouthed it, liking the taste of the skin: only faintly musky and clean and it smelled like soap. 

“Mr. Mathers.” The voice made John jump, his head snapping upright and almost taking out Marshall’s front teeth. With a soundless laugh the rapper shook his head and the kid’s blush came back so it looked like he had makeup on, two splashes of color high on the cheekbones.

“Yeah?” he called over his shoulder.

“Where are we going?”

“Hotel. Pick one,” he said before diving back between John’ s lips, candy lips, like that dumb song said. The kid’s hands surround his jaw and pulled him away and he grunted in protest. 

“My apartment’s close by,” John whispered, brown eyes sincere and steady on his and Marshall stared at him for second. Yeah, someone’s private crib was always safer, and even with the screaming girlies, he knew the press didn’t follow John like they did him. 

“Where.” John told him the address while caressing under Marshall’s long, hooded sweatshirt, up his back to mold his shoulder blades with those big, possessive hands. Pulled him close to bite at his chest through his white t-shirt and Marshall kept his voice level as he repeated the address to the driver before tangling a fist in the silky, messy hair and snapping John’s head back, muffling the surprised sound with his lips, gorging on the satin mouth. He could kiss him all day, he could live on this taste, fresh, sweet, satin. His hand fumbled for the buttons on the loose jeans and John grabbed his wrist, cheeks flaming.

“What?” Marshall muttered against the bump of John’s throat, floating in the scents, fucking tripping on them. Somewhere in his zone he thought how damn funny it was that the smell of shampoo, soap, and boy could get him this hot. 

“We’re almost there,” The full lips murmured into his hair and Marshall grinned and started to pump through the material, a knowing, slow rhythm that had John drawing in breath on each flick of Marshall’s wrist. He got rougher and the body beneath his tensed and John dropped his head in the crook of his neck, breathing shallowly. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He whispered, hard himself, stone rigid and leaking and why he got this way, why jerking off this kid in the back of a limo felt hotter than all the fine bitches in thongs he’d ever had, he didn’t know. 

“No, please, I’m….” The voice was pleading, big hands gripping bruises on Marshall’s arms, and he drew back to look in the dark, hooded eyes thick with lust. “Please.” John whispered and leaned forward to kiss him, bow mouth parting into his, and damn. Fucking mouth should be illegal. The citrus tongue teased him, flicking in and out, brushing his lips until Marshall shook with want. From fucking KISSES.

Shit. 

Marshall felt his hands drawn away from John’s crotch but was too busy tripping on the kid’s mouth to care. By the time the limo eased to a stop he had his hands under the ratty shirt, plucking at sensitive nipples and playing the lines of the kid’s ribs like piano keys. He’d say the little fucker was skinny but he could feel lean muscle beneath the dorky sweater, firm with just enough give. 

John’s big, warm hands moved his mouth away to separate them.

Marshall let go reluctantly, their faces inches apart so he could see the thick dark lashes, watch John catch a bottom lip with his teeth and how his mouth looked even more full, more red from their kisses. How the dark brown curls stuck to the light sweat on his brow. 

“You gonna pick me up again?” Marshall demanded, his voice low and rough and John blinked those damn eyes at him. 

“Okay.”

“Shit!” He scrambled away before John could get a grip on his hips and tried to scowl as the lanky kid laughed at him. The trilling of a cell phone cut into the conversation. Both of them reached in their pockets but it was John who knit his brows and pushed a button before slipping the phone back in his jeans. 

“Your boys checking up on you?” 

John gave him a serious nod. “Yup. If they don’t hear from me by dinnertime they’re sending out the Guard.”

“Shit.” Marshall scoffed, smoothing his non-existent hair while John broke down and grinned openly at him. He had a deep dimple on his chin and Marshall wanted to touch it with his finger. “Like you told ‘em you was with me.”

“Did you tell your friends?” 

Their gazes locked at that, but John didn’t sound angry or defensive. Just curious, calm as he sat there, shirt still wrinkled around his waist, cheap-ass sweater half off his shoulder and looking like one of those hustlers he saw on the boulevard, just taller, with no track marks. 

Dirty old man, dog, Marshall thought, and found he didn’t give one small fuck. 

He realized they’d begun swaying towards each other again and had to make himself pull away. “Come on.” His voice was husky, almost angry and he didn’t even know why except he didn’t usually react this way to anyone, not like this. Definitely not some pop singer candy-ass who played the fuckin’ guitar. But his dick wasn’t paying any attention, and right now, it was calling all the shots and brooking no arguments.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eminem. John Mayer. A month after the Grammy Awards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedication, from 2003: For lilysaid, because she asked. For verdictlesslife, for giving me musician tips. Gracias, carinos.
> 
> Unbeta-ed. Apologies in advance for any and all mistakes.

JOHN’S APARTMENT

John lived in one of those brownstone buildings set right close together and he needed a code to get in. Marshall stood bouncing on the balls of his feet, fists clenched in his pockets to keep from grabbing the kid’s ass right here on the street. He’d told the driver to take off, meeting the bored gaze defiantly, daring him to sneer. The driver didn’t. Nowadays all the services had non-disclosure agreements, and Marshall couldn’t bring himself to care. What John might look like at his feet licking him kept flashing in his imagination like a loop and nothing else rated right now.

“I’m on the third floor.” John shifted the backpack higher on his shoulder and Marshall nodded absently, glancing around the landing. No one was around but he knew he couldn’t risk it. The need to touch John was becoming intense. He kept picturing that mouth on him, moving. It was like a damn porn film. 

The elevator door slid open and they walked in leaning on opposite walls. He was no fool; he’s seen that Sharon Stone film where she lived in a building and they had cameras everywhere. He could just see the thing showing up on Entertainment Tonight or the Internet. 

So they stood there while the ancient elevator whirred away, each against their own piece of mirrored wall, gazes burning a bridge across the small space. Marshall asked himself again what the hell he saw in the goofy kid that threw his control all to hell. It wasn’t like he was built or anything, too much height and not enough meat on the bones. Marshall wanted to burn that stupid sweater and probably those jeans, but the face, man. Those lips and the drowsy eyes and guy’s hair shouldn’t be that soft.

And he never stopped blushing. Marshall kind of liked that. Wanted to see if he could get John to do it on command.

The sleepy stare finally dropped, then rose back up and Marshall was going to get him for that look. 

Barely remembered the walk down the hall except John fumbled with the key, backpack slipping down an arm and taking the sweater with it. He hefted them back up and Marshall stepped against him, pressing himself into the soft hips. 

“Hurry the fuck up.”

“Sorry, the key kind of sticks…” The lock finally gave and Marshall walked so close behind John the tall guitarist stumbled a little as they entered the apartment. 

“Do you want…?”

“Shut up.” Marshall muttered. He slammed John against the door with his body and almost groaned at how good it felt to rub against all those scents, to fasten to the soft flesh of John’s neck and suck it between his teeth. Did he mind being shorter? Not right damn now.

John made a helpless sound and Marshall spaced out for a few seconds because everything went red, a sea of blind lust as he pushed aside cotton, grabbed handfuls of ass, felt the big, rough-tipped hands pull him closer, hips rock on the thigh Marshall had pushed between the long legs. 

He pulled off the sweater with a growl and John laughed, kid was always laughing, while Marshall swirled him away from the door towards the bed. Fucking place only had bedroom; the bed couldn’t be that far away. He’d seen it past the recording equipment when they walked in.

Marshall momentarily stopped mouthing John’s neck and glanced across the room. 

An equalizer and Audiokey were set up as well as two mike jacks, one obviously for a guitar. Some little red thing that looked like a video game superpad except it had cables attached sat on another stool and a pair of recording headphones rested next to that.   
A spiral notebook lay on a table and CDs were neatly compiled: one box labeled ‘blank’ and another labeled ‘songs.’ 

“You got a set up?” The insistent clamoring below his waist momentarily forgotten Marshall pulled away from where John bit at his collar and approached the recording equipment in the corner. He carefully picked up the superpad and inspected it; it was heavier than it looked. “What’s this do?” When John didn’t answer he looked over his shoulder to see the guitarist standing there, disheveled and flushed, with a quizzical look on his face. 

“What?” He demanded and John blinked and shook his head, blushing again, and the kid’s cheeks were going to stay that color at this rate.

“Nothing! Just...sorry. It’s called a POD. It’s specifically for recording guitar chords.”

“Yeah?” Marshall inspected the gadget some more than moved on to the Equalizer. “Don’t your neighbors bitch?”

“There are at least six different bands living in this building. I think some guy from The Strokes is down the hall, so it’s all relative. I’m not exactly Metallica.” Marshall snorted and John grinned, pushing his hair back. 

“How’s it work?” Marshall gestured to all the equipment and John studied him before nodding with a funny surprised smile. 

“Okay, first I get an idea, like, maybe just the bridge….” Marshall watched the kid go through how he wrote the notes down on the paper, a series of little dots and lines, then pluck it out on the guitar he took out of a battered case with a multitude of stickers on the outside. Marshall watched the large fingers position themselves on the guitar’s neck and the strings, bent in weird ass shapes that would have given him a hand cramp, but the melody plucked out and hung in the air as John hummed along, eyes downcast. Marshall tilted his head, studying the way John got lost just in the demonstration of the song. Kinda fly, really. Lots of switches were flicked and lights came on and the guitar superpad was adjusted, and adjusted some more until the minor chords fed back from the Bose speakers. 

“Sometimes I’ll wake up up at, like, four a.m. with a melody in my head and I don’t want to wait to go into the studio, so...” John shrugged looking at the basic recording setup.

“This is dope, yo.”

“Yup.” John bobbed his head, hands finding the slits of his pockets again, like that night. “I told them ‘If the equipment isn’t DOPE you get no warranty agreement from me! I think they had a ‘dope’ section. The other non-dope instruments couldn’t get in even if they tipped the doorman. It was elitist, actually.”

Marshall stared.

John held up an inquisitive finger. “Did I mention I’m a dork? You should probably know that.”

“Shut up.” Marshall said, but couldn’t help grinning back. Little fucker was a dork. And he wanted to put his hands all over him. Strolling over he pinned John to the table with his hips and leaned over, eyes on the petal lips. “Dork.”

John’s mouth opened slowly beneath his, tease of tongue as their lips brushed against each other. Marshall felt hands on his hip bones, then his waist and broke away to look at the flushed, pretty face again. He loved that he could have this effect on the kid with just a kiss so maybe he wasn’t the only one thrown by this - whatever it was.

“Why are you here?” John whispered as the sleepy stare took in Marshall’s face. He stared back floating in all the scents and textures.

“’Cause I wanna be. Why’d you ask me?”

“I want…wanted…” John chewed on a corner of his lip, as the thick brows knit. “I couldn’t stop it. And I sound like a girl, right?” He laughed nervously and Marshall caught the soft mouth once more, fell into velvet and heat and want until they were panting into each other, sharing breath.

“Why are you here?” John repeated as they bumped foreheads and fought for control even as their hands roamed with minds of their own, under shirts, across chests. He could feel John’s heart trip-hammering away strong beneath his palm. Marshall almost sneered because, fuck, what was this, some chick movie? He had to voice his feelings and shit? Except he was so hard he could feel his pulse down there and he wanted, damn, he wanted everything, but especially that, so bad….

“Your mouth, man.” The phrase found voice probably because he was staring right at John’s lips, could probably stare for hours. The goddamn John Mayer porn review and he’d never even seen the guy’s dick. “Want your mouth. Thinking about it like I don’t know, it’s just…” Marshall brought up his fingers to touch the swollen flesh, pouted like a bee sting. ‘Wanna fuck your mouth.’ From the way John’s dick gave a jump for a second he thought he’d actually said the words. He hadn’t, though, but now the phrase kept looping around his brain like profane mantra. His hands pressed down on John’s shoulders as they kissed trying to show what he wanted, to get him there. The long lashes lifted again, sleepy slow, and the flush came back, marking John’s face but John didn’t look away. Their stare held, electric tension thickening the air until John brushed his knuckles across the front of Marshall’s sweats and Marshall gasped silently.

John nodded once and switched them around like they were on a dance floor. The kid’s midnight dark eyes seemed to take up his entire vision and Marshall couldn’t stop staring in them. Felt his own eyes grow wide as John’s lanky figure dropped to the floor and looked up at him, and he’d had this dream, hadn’t he? He’d jerked off to exactly this for weeks but the reality, man. He’d had no idea. No idea how the sight of the pretty face down there could make his breath come in short stitches before the kid even touched him, just how vulnerable John looked, open and defenseless down there, could drive a fist of want deep in his gut. He’d begun to tremble and couldn’t stop.

One large, capable hand pushed up Marshall’s white t-shirt, holding it there while John traced the muscles of his abs with feather light touches. The taut plates of his six-pack jumped and John glanced up, splaying his fingers on the ridges. Marshall tore off his shirt and hoodie, nerves sensitized all if a sudden, needing out of the fabric. Finally John lowered his gaze and easily, slowly, pulled the elastic waist of his sweats down over Marshall’s hips, and he was struck how nothing was in a hurry. Nothing felt rushed even if they’d been all over each other until now. The brush of fabric over Marshall’s sensitive cock brought a rough sound from his lips. 

“Sorry.” John whispered, glancing up again, and fuck, those little looks were like touches, fleeting fire. A big hand came back to his abs and lay on them, warm, then began to rub in circles, like Marshall had a stomachache or something, except the effect…He took a shaky breath, hands gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. The candy lips hung so tantalizingly close as John’s hands explored the jut of his hip bone, the muscles of his ass.

A cell phone rang. John reached in his pocket and Marshall took the phone from him, hung up before John could even check, took out his own phone, and tossed them both aside where they bumped along the faded Persian rug. John blinked then continued the teasing touches and caresses.

“Come on.” Marshall ground out hoarsely and thought he saw a faint smile, had time to swear revenge for this torture, then the dark eyes closed, satin lips slipped around the head like wet silk and Marshall lost. His. Damn. Mind.

Hot velvet tongue in little licks just on the tip and he heaved like he’d run a 50 yard dash, fisted the soft hair to shove himself all the way in, couldn’t help it, stop it, if he tried. John gave a surprised murmur that melted into pleasure sounds Marshall barely heard over his own loud gasping because, fuck, what the, he couldn’t stop looking. His gaze couldn’t tear away from how John’s lashes looked, starry and fringed, how the bow lips moved over his length, red, glistening mouth, so good godDAMN…

John’s hand slipped between Marshall’s thighs and drew a line between the tightening sacks that lit up trails of lust all up his spine. 

“More.” He groaned, both hands clutching the dark curls by now. “Do it again.” John did, set up a rhythm, and Marshall quivered, seconds from being gone, evaporated by that mouth. Almost, so close, fuck, fuck…

John grazed his teeth, just a little, all the way down and Marshall exploded viciously, stripped of everything but this and blindsided, pumping into John’s mouth. John gave a throaty moan around his dick and shook, too. Marshall noticed his hand working desperately and saw the fine throat swallow, which set him off again, just a quiver of aftershock but enough to set him shaking. 

His legs refused to hold him abruptly, just quit, and Marshall collapsed in a clumsy heap, pants tangled around his ankles, floor cold on his butt while an armful of boy leaned against his chest, their heavy breathing loud in the room’s silence. He opened his eyes without realizing he’d closed them and looked down to where John slumped against his shoulder, mouth red-bruised, hair a mess, and the lashes on the sleepy eyes lifted, just to half mast. Before he even thought of it he snagged the collar of the ratty t-shirt and pulled the swollen lips to his. John tasted like him.

Laughter began to leak out in the middle of the kiss and John had to pull away, snuffling into Marshall’s neck. 

“You laughing at me?” He demanded, which would have come off better if he weren’t sitting here bare-assed. 

John shook his head. “This has got to be the strangest thing I’ve ever done. I mean, ever. Nothing else is even close.”

“Yeah, well.” Marshall sniffed; thought of shifting because it felt like his ass was sticking to the wooden floor, but John felt kind of good on his chest. And, hell, he always got sleepy and lazy after. “You still a baby. Give it time.”

“Right.” A snort came from where John rested on his chest. “How old are you /grandpa/?”

“Oh no you DIDN’T go there.” 

“No, I didn’t. That’s the point.” John sat up, pulling his t-shirt over the front of his jeans. Marshall glared slit-eyed at him and John shook his head. “I’m twenty six.”

Marshall blinked. 

“Do you want to card me now?”

“I want to fuck you now.”

“You sure?” John asked earnestly . “Maybe you need to, like, rest. Have some Geritol, a vitamin...”

“Shut the fuck up, bitch.” Marshall muttered, but he couldn’t stop the smile from breaking as John grinned at him. The kid had a pretty cool smile, wide and friendly, with an open-ness Marshall hadn’t had since he was a kid. Probably not even then. He caught himself smiling back and stopped. His heart gave a little jump.

“What?”

“My ass is falling asleep.” 

The long, coltish legs untangled and they helped each other stand, John laughing at how Marshall lost his balance while pulling up his sweats, making them stagger, and laughed more when Marshall scowled at him. They ended up hobbling around before he could get his pants on, John snorting with glee while Marshall cursed, which only made the kid laugh more. Finally he righted them both, hands on the slim waist and they paused, inches apart, Marshall’s eyes zoning in those lips like radar. Fuck, this was ridiculous.

Even teeth bit at the full flesh and the long lashes did the slow rise that seemed to trip all his reasoning right out. He pulled John close with one possessive arm while his other hand sought the soft, firm skin under the t-shirt, warm and smooth like satin. John’s eyes closed as Marshall thumbed a nipple, breath slowing, long arms linking around Marshall’s neck. 

“Have.” John licked his lips and Marshall watched the moist pink tongue like he was hypnotized. “Have you ever…with a guy…”

“I ever fucked a guy? That what you’re asking?” Marshall rubbed his hand over John’s ass, liking how it fit in his palm just right. John blushed a little, but nodded, eyes closed. 

“What do you think?”

“I…maybe?” The chocolate eyes fluttered open, apprehensive and Marshall realized the kid was still a little scared of him. Maybe. Usually that tripped him out, gave him a little thrill. Probably some tie in to when he was almost beaten to death by other kids. Not now, though, for some reason. 

“Kinda personal.”

John burst out with some more of that free, open laughter that did something to his gut. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen anyone this unguarded in The Business, ever. 

“Your hand is in my pants! Are you serious?”

“Naw, my hand ain’t in your pants.” Marshall contradicted with a slow smile. He suddenly quit exploring under John’s shirt, hands purposeful now, and unbuttoned the 501’s one-handed; kid would have on those pain in the ass jeans, pushed them roughly aside, briefs and all. John’s mouth slipped open in surprise as the pants fell to the floor with a ‘thunk’, leaving him half naked. Marshall grabbed a smooth, muscled cheek in one hand, gripped John’s half-hard cock in the other, and just that made him hard again, that fast. “Now my hands are in your pants.”

The dark, dark eyes clouded as they met his, fine trembles began in the arms around his neck. “Not. Not really.” John whispered. “My pants fell. Down. So, a..actually…”

“Dork.” Marshall whispered, leaning over to mouth the delicate Adam’s apple and placing a foot against either side of John’s, holding the jeans down. “Step up.” He mumbled as a pulse beat against his tongue.

John obeyed without question and Marshall smiled. The kid almost fell but he caught him, caught them both, and walked John backwards to the bedroom, hands pumping the weeping cock and squeezing the amazing ass in his hands. Fuck those teachers who said he couldn’t multi-task. 

Marshall was hard again, twitching, leaking hard, and this hadn’t happened in a while. 

The back of the bed made John flail and Marshall pushed him with one hand on his chest. The lanky guitarist fell back in a heap of arms and limbs, wearing only a t-shirt and socks of all the damn things, and lay there, propped up on his elbows. The shirt ended just above the half-hard cock in it’s thatch of dark curls, bobbing against one long, smooth thigh, hair like it was windblown, lips parted, and those half-mast sexy eyes riveted to somewhere around Marshall’s chest. Fuck if he didn’t look good enough to devour whole. 

“Take the shirt off.” He demanded slipping right back out of his sweats and toeing off his Jordan’s. John did so in a back arching movement that flashed lust through Marshall, too, and what the fuck, man? But who cared when he had over six feet of creamy skinned, doe eyed guitarist all bare and hard before him and didn’t it feel just like Christmas now.

Parting John’s knees he sank between them and closed his eyes as miles of warm skin surrounded him, Jesus fuck, it felt like lying on silk. Not rounded, softness like a girl but firm muscle beneath him, strong arms around him, and shit, when did the kid get muscles? Is THAT what he hid under those ugly clothes? Then all thought did the white-out thing because John brought up his legs, locked them around Marshall’s waist, long, long, go on for days, lean muscled legs that rubbed their cocks together and it felt so good he thought they both made some raw sound, breathless sound. 

“Motherfuck.” Marshall whispered, hips snapping without his permission for more contact, more of the electric hot slide of John’s cock against his. John moved against him frantically, and Marshall wanted to fuck him, wanted to come inside him, but he wasn’t lasting, man, he felt sixteen with no control at all. 

“God.” John breathed. “God, I can’t…”

Marshall laced their fingers together over John’s head and lifted his chest up to rock his hips down hard, glorious shoots of pleasure all up his spine, crackling, sizzling. 

“Shit.” He moaned at the ceiling, head thrown back with the intensity. Fucking god, this was crazy, what the hell was this doing to him? One more thrust, one more, Jesus just one…

“Please.” John’s whimper brought him back and he dropped his chin took in the burning red face, dark eyes unfocused. One shaking hand reached up to smooth restlessly over the short bleached strands before hooking on his neck, thumb rubbing over his mouth. “Please, come here…” The hand tugged. Marshall understood and dove down to mash their mouth together brutally, open, hungry, tongues fencing in all the wet heat and John breathed in sharply through his nose, twice, inarticulate sounds escaping between their lips and the lanky body was shaking violently in his arms as he was held tight, tighter, too tight to breathe and he didn’t care. 

“Yeah.” He muttered as John quaked out his orgasm, the come warm between them. “Like that.” He ran a hand, none too steady either, over the kid’s face, the shut eyes, panting mouth, so damn beautiful…John caught his finger, sucking the digit in, heat heat tongue swirling…

“Shit.” He gasped, plowing fingers in the bow mouth, hard, in-out, and they were connected to his dick, to all his nerves because…he came with a strangled “Uh!”, back curved, hips still thrusting, hand clenched in John’s mouth as he let go and the strong arms held him while he shook and shook. He didn’t even feel it when he fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedication, from 2005: For nonchop and rubywisp, who asked for more of this, nicely and often, and kept asking. For you, cariños. Much love.  
> Dudes. It's been an embarassingly long time. Almost a year! Holy shit!*shakes head* I don't even know if anyone out there is even interested. I had this long explanation about muses, and growing out of pairings and evolving as a writer and yadda yadda blah blah explanationcakes. I had it to post so I did. 'Nuff said. 
> 
> Still unbeta-ed. Apologies in advance for any and all mistakes.

~PHONE INTERLUDE~

JOHN ON MARSHALL'S CELL

“Hey! Hello, it’s me. I’m here.” 

Silence....... 

“Who the FUCK is this??? If you done something to Marshall I’m gonna put a cap in yo’ white ass, motherfucker.” 

“No! I didn’t..! He’s fine! He’s right here!” 

“You fuckin’ lyin’ ho.” 

“I’m not. Really, I’m not he’s..” 

“What you want?” 

“Want? No, I don’t WANT…” 

“Where Marshall at, punk?” 

“He’ll be right here.” Nervously hand gesturing. 

“Uh-huh. You got two minutes.” 

“Yeah. I…okay.” 

“You lift this cell, motherfucker? You know who this phone belongs to?” 

“I didn’t-lift-it, it’s just, yes, I know…” 

“You better not speed-dial no one, dog." 

“I’m not speed-dialing. Here’s…” Panicked 

“I’ll fuck you up.” 

“I believe you, here’s….” 

“Bitch.” 

“Look, here’s…” 

“PUT HIM ON NOW, MOTHERFUCKER!!!” 

| 

MARHALL ON JOHN'S CELL

“Sup?” Breathless. 

Silence........... 

“Did you steal this phone?” 

“Who is this speaking? Put John on this phone right NOW!" 

“You don’t gotta fuckin’ yell! I ain’t DEAF, bitch!” Outraged sputtering. 

“Where is the owner of this phone?” 

“Maybe I don’t wanna tell you.” 

“WHERE IS HE???” To someone else: “I don’t KNOW what’s wrong, Dela!” 

“You one annoying punk, man.” 

“Fuck you!” 

“Yeah, fuck you too, bitch! Forget you!” 

“John? Hello?” Tinnily. 

“John???? Hello??????” Panicked. 

“Jesus, Dela. I don’t know where he is….”   
  
---|---  
  
*~*~*~*~*~

“Shit! Proof! That’s my ear, dog!”

“Marsh?” The relief in his friend’s voice was palpable and Marshall gave a sigh, running his hand over his face. If it had been Paul he’d be through because his manager didn’t let anything slide. “The hell’s going on?”

“Nothin’, man. Got sidetracked. Forgot to turn on the phone.”

“Yeah?” He could hear the doubt in Proof’s voice but his friend wouldn’t call him on it. Thank god for that at least. “Who the hell was that?”

“No one. Picked up someone else’s cell, shit got mixed up. Look, I’ll be at the hotel in about an hour. See ya.”

He hung up before Proof could ask anything else. John was still talking to his boys. Probably to the one that yelled like a woman. Freak.

“I know. I should have called I just…forgot….Not ‘forgot’ forgot, but there were fans everywhere and I, um, ended up having, uh, dinner, and…..where? Uh, this restaurant, I forgot the name, and… _Steve_ , I’m okay...no!”

Marshall stared at the kid in horror. 

“No, I’m not...who was that?... I’m not repeating everything you say...it was...a fan... go to hell! I have fans that aren’t fifteen year old girls. I’ve had women in menopause come onto me...he called you a...” John covered his eyes but Marshall could see the wide grin beneath his hand. “It’s a little funny, Steve...Steve. Hey!”

“Gimme the fuckin’ phone.” Marshall held out his hand and John glared, waving him away. “Come on. I’ll talk to you later. No. No, I don’t need you to come over.” Marshall pulled the phone out of John’s hand, hung up, and tossed it on the couch meeting John’s indignant scoff with a smirk. 

“I cannot believe how much you suck at bullshitting. That was pathetic, yo.”

“Shut up. Did you call my drummer a bitch?”

“Yeah.” Marshall shot back defensively. “Fucker yelled at me.” 

“Whoever answered your phone called me a bitch, too. ‘Bitch’"John made rabbit ears,"Is really big with you guys. Closely followed by ‘ho’, but I didn’t hear ‘punk’. Is that a personal favorite?” The corners of Marshall’s mouth twitched with humor because John said ‘ho’ like some farmer talking about crops and the phrase ‘row to hoe’ kept popping up, which for some reason, he found really damn funny.

“You’re laughing at me.” John accused, not at all put out.

“Yeah.”

"Hey, I can be just as profane as the next persn. HO." John ventured and Marshall cracked up completley, the laughter bubbling up like it rarely did unless he was stoned. 

“BITCH. What?” Marshall leaned against him holding his stomach and tried to make stopping gestures. “I’m not that bad…”

“You’re killing me, man, quit.” He gasped. “You fuckin’ sound like you’re in church.”

“Fuck you!” John shoved at him. “I do not.” They scuffled good-naturedly, lots of pushing and laughing until Marshall ended up where he wanted, leaning between John’s legs, close to the blossom mouth again. 

“Yeah, you do.”

“I can’t believe you gave me the wrong phone.”

“Shit, me neither. Looked like mine.” They glanced over to the couch and saw identical dark blue cell phones laying there. Marshall had a freak out moment ‘cause how weird was that? Then he glanced at John. “Where’d you get yours?”

“It was in the gift basket at the Grammy’s…” Marshall shook his head in realization. “Wait, yours too?”

“Fuck, yeah. I ain’t giving up a free cell, I ain’t stupid. I got about three or four so I can switch them around.”

“Ah.” John nodded in understanding. “I have one because I’m cheap and broke.” 

Marshall absently scratched at his stomach and realized what the flakes were that were irritating him. With a frown of distaste he pushed away. “I need a shower, like, right fucking now.” He didn’t usually lounge around all naked shooting the shit after sex, or at least not since he’d had a kid. He pulled clothes on as soon as the fucking was done usually, at least with bitches. With a start he realized John didn’t put him on his guard at all. 

“Bathrooms that way.” John gestured with his chin as he bent over to retrieve a pair of jeans from the floor. Marshall stared at the play of muscle on the smooth, white hips and felt his mouth go dry. No. He had to go so Proof wouldn’t get even more freaked out.

But, shit. The kid was one long, tall, smooth line; legs for days with those sleek muscles someone got from running or swimming, not the bunched up gym ones from work out equipment. The indentions on John’s ass made him want to fit his fists in them, the rounded bulge of bicep made him want to circle it with his hand. He’d look like the gay porn poster boy except the hair was all wrong, he kind of slouched, like he’d never gotten used to being that damn tall, and he had tats in all the wrong places: a large rectangle on one inner forearm, one of those Japanese fish on his shoulder, and the number ‘77’on his chest. The photographers liked a clean slate. “Guests go first. That’s what my mom says, anyway.”

“We do this together, save time.” He tried to make his voice off hand, as if he could give a fuck, but John glanced at him with just his eyes. “What? Don’t you gotta take off, too? Damn. Just trying to be fucking accommodating.”

“You think this will save time?” John said, but he walked toward Marshall slowly, jeans dragging on the floor from one hand, forgotten. 

“Shit. You aint’ THAT hot.” Marshall scoffed and John nodded, head tilted, eyes doing that damn half-closed bedroom thing that did things to his cock. 

“Okay.” And he walked to the bathroom, laying the jeans on the couch on the way. 

Marshall followed, smirking. 

Shit. He’d turned down finer men AND women than the goofy guitarist in the bathroom. The fuck did the kid think he was?

*~*~*~

Marshall lasted fifteen minutes. 

*~*~*~

When they got out of the shower the phones were shrieking again and they had a deja moment when they realized they STILL couldn’t tell the difference without looking at the caller ID. With a grin John just beeped off but Marshall answered it, told Proof to get the fuck off his ass, he was walking out the door, and hung up. Then he called a cab.

“Shut up.” He snapped at John as the kid stood there in sweatpants, a shit-eating grin, and a hoodie with no shirt, curls of hair dripping water down the side of his face. Marshall wanted to lick it off. 

He’d attacked him in the shower. Felt like a goddamn loser who couldn’t control himself, but one passing slide of John’s slick skin as he reached around him for the soap and Marshall was lost. The feel of that long body all wet and soaped up sliding against his had been worth it, though. John’s big hand had closed around his hard on as they kissed, slippery with shampoo and he came hard in no time. He’d be getting a complex if John didn’t fare much better, groaning into his neck while Marshall jerked him off. 

He hadn’t come this many times in the space of four hours since…high school? Maybe. Not any time recent, he was almost positive. And he wanted to do it again. He was gonna put himself in the hospital if he kept going like this and he had a feeling he’d go with a smile. 

“I gotta leave.” He said after pulling on his clothes and feeling for his wallet and phone. 

“I know.” John ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face, eyes on the floor before both hands dug into the pockets of the hoodie. Marshall watched the careful nonchalance on the full-lipped face. John wouldn’t look at him. 

“Anyway, thanks.” The dark eyes shot up sharply then softened as Marshall grinned in triumph. 

“Asshole.” 

“Yeah.” He smiled and they stood there, in each other’s space, that pull already starting at the base of his stomach. Jesus Christ this was fucking crazy.

“So you gonna give me your number or what?” He demanded as if John had turned him down in the first place. Surprise sparked in the dark eyes before they looked down, then up, lashes like bird’s wings. 

“Am I getting yours?”

“Yeah.” He said after a beat, breaking his own rule with one word: never give out your personal line. That way he could blow off the bitch if he wanted and not have to dodge phone calls because she thought one blow job in the bathroom of a club meant they were going goddamn steady. “Okay.”

John gave him a dazzling smile, almost blinding in its happiness and Marshall felt that tug on his chest again. It made him want to run all of a sudden because he didn’t get all sentimental and shit over sex, not even really good come-his-brains-out-his-dick sex. 

“Punk.” He muttered as John walked over to a computer and opened one of the drawers on the small desk. 

“Here.” The kid scribbled something on the back of a card with a felt tip pen and handed it to him. Marshall squinted at the print; he didn’t have his glasses or his contacts in. He didn’t bother if he didn’t have to read anything specific. 

John Mayer and the Superpals the card declared in plain dark blue text against the light blue graphic of a guitar. There were no less than four numbers on the bottom and none of them matched the one written on the back. 

“You got a card?” He flicked it under John’s chin and the guitarist shrugged and moved away, but didn’t blush. Marshall had to work on that. He liked being able to make him do that. 

“My manager thought it would be a good idea. I think he got a deal on the amount. That’s my house phone. It’s a grounded line but I check my messages pretty regularly, so I’d call you back. I don’t use the cards anymore but I have, like, three boxfuls.”

Marshall let him run on only half listening, watching the lips form words and flashing on scenes from the shower, the bed. 

"...and then I had sex with Madonna in the middle of the MTV offices while Carson Daly held up score cards...”

“What?” The words were said into his mouth because Marshall had been swaying forward and Christ, how embarrassing. “The fuck you did.”

“You weren’t listening at all.”

“Nope. I got bored.” He replied belligerently, and John looked away, expression unreadable. 

“Or you don’t have to give me your number.”

“No, I don’t.” He agreed then grabbed the pen from John’s hand and knelt down in front of him; saw the tensing of surprise. 

“What...?”

“You talk too much.” Marshall mumbled as his eyes took in the pale, firm torso in front of him. Kid was so damn tall Marshall’s eye-level came to exactly above the waistband of the unfashionable plain gray sweats, and he tugged them lower, realizing he could pants the guitarist with no trouble at all, and, man, that wasn’t getting him out the door quick. John didn’t have a six-pack like he did, with each muscle defined like a statue, but two lines bracketed John’s stomach and the skin between was a flat, smooth plane. Holding onto one sharp hipbone he rested his forehead against the soft pillow, lips grazing quivering flesh, and wrote his cell number across the white skin over John’s navel. Before he was done John’s cock nudged his chin and Marshall grinned. 

“Wash that off after you write it down.” He said, but the last word faded off at the naked hunger in the dark, dark eyes. They stepped into each other simultaneously, Marshall clenching fistfuls of fleece at John’s waist and those big hands cradled his face again, brought their lips together. The taste exploded on his tongue, enormous and citrusy with a dash of him and Marshall made a sound in his throat, brought an arm around the slim waist and crushed John close. 

They were both hard again. He had to get the fuck out of here.

In a minute.

Downstairs, a horn honked three times, impatiently.

At last he got his fill, or told himself he did, of satin lips and velvet hot tongue and pulled away, still taking bites of John’s lips like they were food. “Gotta go.” He ran his palms over the slender waist, thumbs outlining delicate ribs.

“Mmm. ‘Kay. Okay.” John closed his eyes and bowed his head, hands obediently letting go and burrowing in the pockets of the hoodie. Without thinking Marshall kissed his head, drowning in the silky curls and clean shampoo smell, and almost had his shit together by the time John looked up in surprise.

“Later, yo.” He clapped a hand against John’s face in a move too rough to be romantic even if the contact sparked along his palm like magic. 

“Yeah. Later, to you too. Yo.” John nodded, swatting his arm with a pocketed hand and Marshall rolled his eyes. Dork. 

“Bye.” John opened the door and Marshall backed out of it, still staring in the night dark eyes. He couldn’t turn away until John shut the door with a little wave. Had to fight the urge to run back all the way down the three flights of stairs.

*~*~*~

“Where are you going?” The New York cabbie asked, casting an inquisitive glance in the rear view. He had some kind of Middle Eastern accent that made the words exotic. 

“Straight to hell.” Marshall muttered, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. 

“Pardon?”

“Four Seasons.” He said, louder. 

“Very good.” The driver put the car in gear and Marshall opened his eyes to stare out the window, images, feelings, tastes, assaulting him in waves. His muscles felt sore in that good, sated way that you only got from damn good sex. The card was in the pocket of his hoodie, clutched in one hand, and he pressed the button to roll down the window. Moist Manhattan air whooshed on his face and he blinked at the passing lights, traffic sounds. Slowly he removed his hand and stared down at the card. 

One move. All it would take to bring his world back to normal, or as normal as he’d had it. He’d done it before, dozens of times, hundreds maybe since he blew up. Not just nameless, faceless people either. Famous bitches, well known fags, who pressed their number into his hand, sometimes after a bodily fluid exchange, sometimes not. The women, anyway. Almost every one got tossed out into the night. The ones he’d kept he’d regretted. 

One move. 

After another second he pulled out his wallet and tucked the card into one of the flaps. 

Leaned back. 

Played some more mind movies while the evening air rich with car exhaust, garbage and a hint of rain, blew his memories around.<


End file.
